


Burned

by Mother_North



Series: Attraction [6]
Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Attempt at Humor, Confessional, Consensual Somnophilia, Emotional, Forbidden, Guilt, I'm Sorry, Kinky, M/M, POV Brian, POV First Person, Psychology, Sex, Teacher-Student Relationship, Threat of being discovered
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 17:39:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15466623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mother_North/pseuds/Mother_North
Summary: A take on Yuzu/Brian, written as a series of little snippets in a style of confessional writing and consisting of three chapters:I. You are playing with fire, boyII. I burnIII. We are burnedWell... There is not much to say, really.





	1. I. You are playing with fire, boy

**Author's Note:**

> There are practically no works on the two of them in English-speaking part of the figure skating fandom, so I have decided to give it a shot and I have to confess that I have always found this pairing to be intriguing and worthy of some exploration. Please, read the tags and if you somehow find the age difference or/and the possibility of intimate relationships between a coach/student disturbing – there is no need to proceed reading. Also, please note, that there is a mention of somnophilia.  
> The idea of the fic was born out of one of many of our creative discussions with my great fellow-author and friend – Puniyo.  
> If it is not for you, dear, I am afraid I wouldn’t be able to undertake such a challenge.  
> Thank you^^  
> Usual RPF disclaimer applies to this work of total fiction in full and it is not meant to offend anyone. It is a product of my (twisted-?) imagination only and it has absolutely nothing to do with truth or real life. I respect coaching ethics very much and all of the events described below are completely fictional obviously as there is zero correlation with reality.  
> I apologize in advance if this still upsets you, somehow.  
> Otherwise, enjoy.  
> *phew*

**

_Confession heals, confession justifies, confession grants pardon of sin, all hope consists in confession; in confession there is a chance for mercy.  
\--_ _St. Isidore of Seville_

_**_

One of the renowned colleagues of mine has once said that when you are training a genius, you feel if there is no limit, you feel as if you can reach the skies. She failed to mention that it is also very easy to get lost while reaching for the unreachable; there always exists a danger of overstepping a line, which should never be crossed, at all costs…But hearing _the sky_ calling for you every single day is a trial hard to withstand, for I am a mere mortal, made of living flesh and susceptible to human desires.

My guilt lies in knowing that everything was doomed right from the beginning, yet I was not able to stop, while it was not too late, putting an end to urges, which should have been left rotting, buried in the furthest corner of my corroded soul. It would have spared me from a countless of sleepless nights, lying on my back, staring into darkness, my guilty conscience being my ever loyal companion. The wound is too raw still, infected by my forbidden longing and inflamed anew each time I lay my eyes on you, my golden boy.  

Jean Cocteau was once asked if his house were on fire what he would take in the first place, while trying to rescue. His answer was simple: fire itself.

I did the same.

For fire was burning in your dark eyes, always: be it in the form of two glowing embers or raging flames, which were threatening to melt the whole skating-rink. It sent sparkles straight to my heart and set a fire in there too. I looked at your svelte, lithe frame, clad in skin-tight black, gliding across the ice and it made me coil like a burning cigarette.

I never stood a chance.

They say it is no good playing with fire for a reason. You were fire incarnated: in the way you gave yourself to the music completely, illuminating people’s hearts with your radiance, performing passionately every single time you stepped on the ice, acting as if there were no tomorrow.

It fascinated, it scared and it _ignited_.

There was an unspoken trust between the two of us which I cherished greatly. I sensed that, perhaps, at times, I was too mild with you, letting your inborn ambitious nature and obsessive perfectionism take you to the extremes, your body starting to scream in protest from overtraining. I reprimanded, I spoke softly as if talking to a stubborn child (who you, actually, really were), trying to be diplomatic and constantly searching for compromises, for you hated half-shades and half-deeds. I secretly admired you for it but it was easy to snap, while watching you bowing politely only to lunge into a strictly prohibited attempt of a quad loop some mere minutes later.

You laughed cheekily, a spark of mischief in your impossible eyes, leaving me no other choice, except to start laughing myself, all of my previous irritation fading away.

It was you who had a box of matches in your nimble fingers. I was just some firewood, waiting to be burnt to ashes at the altar of your damning charms.

At first, I thought I was overthinking or, maybe, trying to see something that never existed; that you acted unconsciously and quite provocative nature of some of your gestures eluded your childishly innocent self.

I was naïve.

Later, I began thinking that you simply found it entertaining: playing dubious games with me — a little provoking and daring, but in a way that always left space for a possible retreat or some kind of a rational explanation. I resigned myself to a role of a blind old fool: you asked me to look at the nasty bruising, swelling at your hip, naked skin glistening in the dim light of a deserted changing room — I did; you asked me to knead your tensed shoulders and the back of your neck while leaning in outrageously close, the flowery scent of your moist hair tickling my nostrils — I did; you hugged me tightly, the whole of your body pressed against me, your pearly teeth grazing my earlobe _oh so accidently_ , while asking: “Am I a good boy..?” — Well, I did… _survive_.

You were insolent and I wanted you.

There is hardly any doubt that you knew it too.


	2. II. I burn

It was an ordinary, post-competition evening, me declining an invitation to an after-party, finding myself alone in my hotel room with a glass of amber whiskey. You took silver then, your whole being simmering with a well-concealed frustration. I knew you too good to believe this mask of feigned impassiveness, which you often wore, when needed — retreating into your shell, true feelings encapsulated securely.

It was already half past eleven when I heard a tentative knock at my door. You were standing in the corridor in your “Winnie the Pooh” pajamas, looking like a lost child, eyes downcast and lower lip bitten hesitantly.  You said you couldn’t sleep and that that absurd mistake on quad sal needed to be analyzed immediately. I tried to summon your common sense, saying that we can always deal with it later, after you were properly rested and less _kuyashii_. You hopped onto my double bed, looking as headstrong as ever and I had to surrender, alcohol not helping my resolve to act reasonably at all.

We watched video of your free skate numerous times: the set up for the failed jump, the take-off, the rotations in the air and the momentarily loss of balance on the landing. You looked flushed and highly agitated, a _wildcat_ ready to stalk and kill its prey, if only a chance had presented itself. You were born to win and obsessive desire to be the best in everything you did was in your blood — both frightening and captivating at the same time.

I went to the bathroom for a quick shower, only to find you sprawled on my bed upon my return: lying on your stomach, a silver thread of saliva drooling at my pillow from the corner of your slightly parted lips. The cotton fabric of your pajama pants outlined the perfect swell of your little ass and the _incidentally_ rolled up t-shirt, while being crumpled around your waist, provided a heady glimpse of your milky skin.

I gulped convulsively, heart beating violently in my chest. I had to wake you up and tell you to go to your room, to your own bed, to your own world, devoid of carnal desires — pure and asexual and chaste, just like the one of an angel.

I was hurtling towards my own ultimate downfall as I sat at the edge of the bed next to you, instead. Each of my movements was unhurried and well-controlled, a mixture of intoxicating excitement and peculiar fright of my own actions coiling in my underbelly. I hardly knew what I was doing at the moment, my thoughts running amok inside my head: I was praying for you not to wake up as my fingers started to take down the waistband of your pants as carefully and as slowly as possible. I was shaking inside, all senses on high alert, listening to each of your even breaths, while seemingly forgetting how to breathe myself.

You were still soundly asleep as your pajamas pants slid down to bare the firm globes of your shapely ass. I simply _stared_ unthinkingly, all of the blood heading south, as I felt myself starting to pulse with need so vicious it _hurt_.

I bent down and gave a first feathery lick, savouring the texture of your silky skin. I was waiting for you turning around any moment now — furious, indignant, screaming and kicking. I was ready for everything. I’d have received every single blow, I’d have fallen down on my knees and beg for forgiveness, I would have let you _crucify_ me for my dishonor and shameful want, giving myself at your mercy undividedly.

But you kept on sleeping as I was burning alive.

I spread your asscheeks; I just wanted to have a taste, my tongue probing in between gingerly, as a wave of powerful arousal made my vision bleary. I felt suspended in time and space, floating detached, while watching my actions from above, as if not belonging to myself anymore.

A tiny hitch in the pattern of your breathing didn’t escape me but I was too far gone to care — the point of no return left behind. I began to caress you more brazenly, lost in your unique flavor, heat around my penetrating tongue constricting to the rhythm of my twitching cock.

I came into my jeans far too quickly, my orgasm being as lightning-like as it was severe. I felt your body shudder convulsively — _taken apart_ , a sharp intake of breath and a tiny quiet groan, muffled into a pillow, making me freeze.

My neurons apparently short-circuited as I saw you turning your head to the side, taking a deep breath and _convincingly_ looking as if you hadn’t woken up at all — all relaxed and peaceful. I was paralyzed with dread as the ruthless realization of what I had just done swept over me, guilt raging wild, tearing at my heart.

I didn’t sleep a wink on that fateful night, my head throbbing painfully as I was sipping my black coffee at the hotel lobby on the following morning.  The moment our eyes met I wished for the ground to swallow me up, the tips of my ears burning beet-red.

You were beaming, a tiny drop of yoghurt sliding down your chin as you caught it with the pinky tip of your tongue.

You kept on smiling ingenuously as I was burning alive.


	3. III. We are burned

Days, weeks and months were passing by — each different, yet all feeling the same. You were acting nothing out of ordinary: everything well-organized and thoroughly thought-out; you hiding expertly behind a shield of little rituals: touching the ice, squeezing the yellow plushness of your beloved teddy-bear, amulets and necklaces always at your guard, be it from a potential evil spell or your own insecurity.

I loved you more than ever.

I cursed myself for it but it couldn’t be helped, nevertheless.

At one rainy afternoon you appeared at my office, locking the door behind and silently standing with your back pressed against its wooden surface. I was surprised by your unexpected attempt at seeking privacy, after all and my heart jumped into my throat.

I wanted to tell you that an achingly beating organ inside my chest wasn’t, by no means, bulletproof and that you needed to stop looking at me with eyes so _sharp_ and _lethal_. I opened my mouth to speak, telling myself that this moment had to come, sooner or later, and that running away for the rest of our lives was not an option. We had to discuss everything straightforwardly like the two grown-up men would. Your English was still pretty rusty and I was searching for words in my mind frantically when you covered the distance separating us in several confident steps.

You threw your arms around my neck, locking our lips in a demanding kiss and I was responding as feverishly, holding you tight, basking at the warmth of your body.

You withdrew first, eyes glazed beautifully and perfect lips kiss-swollen. I cleared my throat awkwardly, waiting for a sign: a tilt of a head, a barely noticeable nod, fluttering of eye-lashes against porcelain cheeks, a conspiratorial wink — _anything_ , for that matter.

“We have only thirty minutes… For…For _you know what_.”

I felt my sanity shifting, mouth falling open, my bewildered expression making you chuckle enticingly. I couldn’t believe my ears.

“Yuzu…Are you _fucking_ kidding me?”

Swearing slipped from my tongue without me noticing. I bet I looked ridiculous: heaving and red-hot and stammering. Like a schoolboy who was proposed sex for the first time.

“No. You are experienced. I trust you.”

As simple as that.

Was there a person in this world being capable of saying “no” to you? Well, it was definitely not me, anyway.

I made you lay down on the office table, my hands shaking. I took off your sweatpants, acutely aware of the limited time we had. I tried to be as gentle as possible, the thought of the thin walls constantly present at the periphery of my mind. My hands were caressing the tender skin of your inner thighs reverently. I traced each curve and every line with my tongue, not an inch of your divine smoothness forgotten.

By the time, I had my first finger inside your mindboggling tightness you were wiggling your hips impatiently. I kept on exploring — your _sweet_ _spot_ being a true _revelation_ to you: your back arching off the table gracefully and your husky groan sounding obscenely loud. I covered your mouth with the palm of my free hand, surprised by how vocal and sensitive you turned out to be.

_My boy._

Small shudders were wrecking your body as I, finally, deemed you prepared enough. I pushed inside very carefully, mindful of the smallest movement, trying not to let my self-control slip for an ounce. It was a difficult task and I stilled, buried to the hilt, giving you time to adjust to a burning stretch of penetration. Your eyes were squeezed and you were breathing through your nose fast and shallow.

I heard familiar steps outside the door and I nearly _died_ : pouring sweat running down my spine, arms refusing to hold my weight as I collapsed, pressing you into the surface of the table, cursing under my breath.

_Tracy._

“Hey, Brian! There is still fifteen minutes left till the end of a dinner break and I thought, maybe, we can go and have some hot chocolate or something…Are you in there?”

She was tugging at the door handle with all of her might and I was never scared _more_ in my whole life.

It’s truly beyond belief, but my voice sounded half as bad, as it could have been expected, in a _particular_ kinky situation like that.

“No… No… I have some pressing matter… Like, really _urgent one_ , Tracy.”  

She was standing by the door for some time— listening intently, perhaps; surprised by the fact that my office door was locked in the middle of the working day.

As soon as I heard her receding steps, I slammed into you forcefully, your cry silenced by my sweaty palm. Our sex was feverish and bizarre — made of ragged breathing, arrhythmic thrusting and quivering limbs; two bodies crudely sewn together, engaged in a frenzy act of chasing each other’s satisfaction in an almost violent manner, the initial intent of being tender evaporating without a trace.

Miraculously, my office table survived and so did I, albeit… _barely_.

I helped you getting dressed and watched you walk through the door with your head held up high, not even a trace of lameness in your walk.

I realized I should never underestimate you.

The air in the room was musky and rather _telling_ so I opened the small window to let some of the fresh air in. My lower back was aching terribly and I prayed that no one would appear at my door, needing several precious minutes to recuperate, the new reality starting to set in — unforgiving and blatant.

Tracy’s curiosity gave me no more than three minutes and it was _way_ _too little_.

“Oh, god…You look as if you may have a stroke any minute, Brian! What on Earth happened?”

I was absolutely sure that my hardly coherent rambling and lame excuses were only rising suspicions and didn’t help at quenching any of Tracy’s pry at all.

I was always a bad liar.

Eventually, I was saved by unsuspecting Ghislain, who wanted to discuss some of the changes in the training schedule for the following week. Later, I bought him an _XXL latte_ as a sign of my endless gratitude.

I didn’t see you for the rest of the day and as I started the engine of the car, preparing to leave TCC for the upcoming weekend, an equally weird and vivid thought flashed at the back of my mind momentarily.

_I am burned._

_You are burned._

_We are burned._

_**_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, you feedback is appreciated.


End file.
